Woman in the Window

by Thomas Gifford

  Back at her place they moved a table and put the tree on it with the windows behind, framing the tree with the snow falling in the courtyard. She watched him set it into the stand, then helped him string the lights and arrange the tinsel almost a strand at a time. While she finished the job he went to the kitchen and she heard him banging around in the cupboards. By the time she was done he had butter melting in the omelet pan and a bowl of eggs and milk and a mound of freshly slivered cheddar. He was smiling and humming happily to himself. She watched him make the omelet and she ground some fresh coffee and carried the mugs into the living room. They sat on the floor before the fireplace, where a couple of last night’s logs got a big fresh one going quickly.

  “Delicious,” she said.

  “I’ve made enough of them. Just call me Cholesterol Man.” He looked up at the tree, twinkling brightly on the table. “Looks good. You really know how to decorate a tree.”

  “Very funny. The first tree I’ve had in three years.”

  “Dammit, we forgot to get mistletoe—”

  “Ah, the last resort of the terminally shy,” she said.

  “Listen, it’s a fact of life. No one has ever been rejected while standing around underneath the mistletoe.” He smiled gently at her, almost wistfully, and she realized she was feeling a kind of spontaneous warmth she hadn’t known in a very long time. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d acted on impulse.

  She leaned across their empty plates and kissed him softly. She felt his lips smiling.

  “Mistletoe, while useful,” she whispered, “is hardly necessary.”

  “Apparently not. You’re showing wonderful initiative.”

  “You’re the one who’s made the effort,” she said, leaning back against the table leg, watching the fire. “It’s very sweet of you—the tree, all the doodads, the omelet. Very thoughtful. But you’ve far exceeded the simple apology for being such a shit … or is this part of NYPD public relations?”

  “Oh, it’s the famous MacPherson Touch all right, but …”He seemed at a loss for words, unable to find the right lightness, the little joke.

  “I understand it runs in the family.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your father must have had quite a touch, too.”

  “Ah. You mean Laura. Mom, I should say. Quite a pair, those two.” He said it fondly.

  She sat quietly, relaxed, curious. “I can’t remember the last time I spent such an enjoyable Saturday. It’s been … well, fun, MacPherson.”

  He looked at his watch and asked her if he had time to light up a pipe before leaving.

  “Of course. It’s my free weekend, nothing hanging over me.”

  “Wish I could say the same.” He pulled a tartan plaid tobacco pouch from his hip pocket and filled the pipe. He lit it and she smelled the clean smell of tobacco, not some awful perfumed gunk. “I’ve got to head out to Glen Cove to see my parents tonight, spend the day, come back tomorrow night. I don’t mean to say I’ll mind being there—Dad and I play chess and he beats the hell out of me at darts and the three of us go for long walks and there’ll be some people over for dinner in the late afternoon. My mother is a fanatical Giants fan so there’ll be a football game or two on television all afternoon—very homey, nice, easy … but this weekend I wish I were staying in town.” He puffed, looking at her openly: the curve of her thighs in the tight denim, the boyish figure beneath the sweater, her eyes. She felt his gaze like a soft, insistent touch.

  “Why? Sounds like an idyllic visit—”

  “It is, but just badly timed. Seeing you today, like this, makes me wish we could just haul out and go to a movie late in the afternoon and have a bite to eat and …” He shrugged. “Well, listen, I’d better be going.” He stood up, stretched. “With all this snow I must be Long Island bound. Natalie, thanks for the use of the hall. I had a marvelous time and I’m sure I’ll be replaying it all the way to Glen Cove.” He knocked his pipe out against the bricks in the fireplace.

  She followed him up the stairs. “I love my tree,” she said, looking back.

  At the top of the stairs he turned and took her by the shoulders. “I hope I see it again. It’s partly mine.”

  “Indeed it is. You’re welcome anytime.”

  He leaned forward, kissed her very lightly, and said, “Be careful. Don’t go out alone. I don’t want anything to happen to you, understand?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I understand.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  NATALIE SPENT THE NEXT hour busying herself around the apartment, straightening and fussing and trying not to think about Danny MacPherson. After all, there was no sane reason to assume that merely because he regretted having treated her badly and had tried to make amends … no sane reason to make anymore out of it. Absolutely no sane reason. But … but that kiss …

  She put Tosca on the stereo and vacuumed the stray shreds of tinsel from the carpet, played with the logs in the fireplace, and watched the afternoon darken and finally close down over the snowy courtyard. No sane reason—but she could feel his lips on hers, his hands on her shoulders, she could still hear his laugh as he struggled down the street with the Christmas tree, still saw him at home in her kitchen with the omelet pan. …

  God! She was acting like a child with a sudden crush! What could be cornier? The nasty cop turns into a pussycat and falls for the lady in distress. Absurd. Still, he was awfully well dressed! She laughed aloud and Sir’s ears pricked up. One thing struck her as particularly odd: what had she thought she was doing, kissing him? But then, nothing normal had happened in days. Nothing …

  She was throwing Sir’s soggy orange tennis ball when the telephone jarred her out of her reverie.

  It was MacPherson.

  “Natalie,” he said, his voice a shade flatter than when he’d left, as if he wasn’t quite so sure of himself or was having trouble about their day together. “I have a suggestion, that is if you’re not entirely tied up this evening. Are you free, by any chance?”

  “Let me hear your suggestion and I’ll tell you.”

  “Very wise, I’m sure. My idea is a simple one—let me buy you a hamburger and a couple of beers.” He sounded nervous, asking for a date. The kiss, the touching, had changed everything.

  “You lost me somewhere—what do you mean?”

  “You know, little patties of ground meat, fried and then put inside a bun, fries on the side, beer’s a grain beverage and you’re over the drinking limit—”

  “Sorry. But I’d never be seen in public with a man so insufferably coy. Anyway, what happened to Mom and Dad in Glen Cove?”

  “If I didn’t know you better, Natalie,” he chuckled softly, “I’d take this as a rejection. Glen Cove will have to wait until tomorrow, snow or no snow. However, I shall proceed—sorry to say but these hamburgers I speak of are entirely in the line of duty. A policeman’s lot. I’d like you to meet me at Lulu’s, the late Ms. Quirk’s home away from home, and under the guise of eating hamburgers we can take a look at the crowd. I grant you it’s a long shot, but—well, you never know. If you would happen to see a man who reminded you in any way of your gun thrower—well, we’d at least have a starting point. Right now we’ve got zip so far as tracing that gun goes.” He paused and she heard him saying something to someone else. She wondered if he had gone to the precinct house upon kissing her goodbye. Now he was trying to be a cop. “Well, what do you say, Natalie? There’s nothing to be afraid of—”

  “Who said I was afraid?”

  “A normal mortal might have a passing concern for her personal safety when getting involved in a murder investigation.”

  “I’m already involved,” she said. “Will you have a gun?”

  He laughed unexpectedly. “Armed to the teeth,” he said.

  “All right,” she said. “It’s my duty as a citizen, right?”

  “What an attitude! Way to go.” He was mocking her but she didn’t really mind. She was glad for his ironic, slightly sour
sense of humor. “Eight-thirty.” He gave her the address on Forty-sixth. On business, he seemed further away from her, which was probably for the best, but she felt a moments sinking disappointment.

  She called Julie on the off chance and found her in.

  “You want to come with me and play detective tonight?”

  “Nancy Drew is well behind me, dear,” Julie said.

  “I’m serious. I got a call from MacPherson, he wants me to meet him at Lulu’s and look for the man with the gun. Lulu’s was Alicia Quirk’s place of business, she dealt coke and used it as her headquarters. MacPherson seems to think the chances are pretty good one of her clients killed her—maybe I’ll see somebody. Don’t say it, I know, I never saw the guy’s face. But there might be something that’ll ring a bell. …” Her voice trailed off: it all sounded so hopeless and lame. “Come on, be a pal.”

  “What’s this MacPherson like?”

  “Kind of a smartass. Nice-looking, I guess. Not my idea of a cop, but then what do I know? You’ll make mincemeat out of him.” She paused, unhappy with what she’d said. “He can be sweet, too. He bought me a Christmas tree today. …” She didn’t want to give away her feelings—whatever her feelings were. But it would be interesting to get Julie’s reaction to him.

  Julie jumped on the little she’d said. “He what? A Christmas tree? That’s not in the cop’s manual, my dear girl.”

  “I know. I know. I’m not sure what’s going on. Come down about eight.”

  “We’ll sort it out. As for Lulu’s,” Julie said disparagingly, “it sounds like a dive.”

  “Sure does.”

  In the cab Julie exclaimed, “Oh, Nat, I forgot to tell you—oh, God, I don’t know if I should. …” She gave Natalie a worried, quizzical look, her wide mouth angled sharply in a frown. Her gold earrings twinkled in the passing lights of traffic.

  “You mentioned it—don’t be a jerk!”

  “Well, maybe I was wrong—no, I wasn’t wrong—”

  “What is it, Jules? Don’t make me crazy, please.”

  “Today, I was out getting my cleaning and some flowers at the shop up on the corner. I came out and started home and there was this guy walking ahead of me, trench coat, collar turned up, snow in his hair, and I thought I knew him, there was something familiar about him. When he got near our house he went across the street, just stood there watching the house, like a man waiting for something. Or someone … I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and the gross part was—I recognized him, I knew him. …” She turned and looked out the window.

  “Jules!”

  “Well, I don’t know his name—okay, it was that guy I had the problem with the other night. You know, Nat, the one who was so interested in my ‘roommate’—you.” She turned back, shaking her head. “Why—tell me why—I don’t just keep my mouth shut?”

  “Because seeing that guy made you worry about me—because you’re my friend, you idiot. What did he do?”

  “It was spooky, he just watched until I went into the building. Then I looked back—and he was gone! Spooky!”

  Natalie shrank back inside her coat. What was she supposed to do? All she needed now was some jerk cruising bars and bothering her. If she thought about it at all, she wouldn’t be of any use to MacPherson. She was beginning to feel like Scarlet O’Hara, putting everything off till tomorrow. Resolutely she straightened her spine. “Now,” Julie said, rushing on, “what’s going on with your cop? Who does he think he is, buying you a Christmas tree?”

  Natalie had never seen Broadway in the immediate aftermath of a snowstorm, with a few flakes still blowing over the city and the incredible brightness of the lights on the marquees reflecting in the glassy whiteness. The glare and blur were almost blinding when they got out of the cab at the corner. The pulsing crowds had diminished, entered the theaters, and she and Julie picked their way through the deep ruts and paths toward Lulu’s. The Great White Way was living up to its name, the sordid reality hidden for the moment. It was all an illusion but spectacularly welcome. Julie grinned at her, soaking up the excitement the storm had somehow conveyed to a scene they both knew so well. A Santa Claus stood ringing a bell on the corner. A group of Salvation Army singers caroled to the tinkly blare of a couple of trumpets. It all struck Natalie as a scene from a Frank Capra movie, and for the moment it displaced the ever-growing mountain of worries and fears that seemed to be building up over her, threatening to break loose in an avalanche at the next loud noise. Like the pounding of her heart. But just now she was all right, she wasn’t alone, she’d had a nice day. She even had a Christmas tree with lights and tinsel. …

  Lulu’s sported a small neon sign in the window, a dark doorway down a couple of steps from the street, just across Eighth Avenue. MacPherson was standing in front, stamping his feet, blowing into already gloved hands, deep in the recesses of a British warm.

  Natalie said, “Okay, where’s your gun?”

  MacPherson gave her a pained look and introduced himself to Julie. He took their arms and ushered them inside. Lulu’s was low-ceilinged, dark with blue and red lights creating a kind of intimate gloom. A long bar ran along the wall to the right, old and scarred wooden tables filling the remainder of the main room and overflowing into a smaller anteroom. The bar was crowded, but a couple of tables were still empty and the waitress seated them and took a drink order. The walls were covered with framed photographs of various Broadway stars both current and long gone. Several huge framed posters were lit from above, the joke being that they were all great box-office disasters. Kelly, Frankenstein, Little Johnnie Jones, on and on, a rogues’ gallery of squandered fortunes.

  Natalie was warming herself with a spicy Bloody Mary when MacPherson set down his mug of beer, lit a cigarette, and squinted at her through the smoke. “Any new ideas, Natalie, since this afternoon? That I don’t already know about?”

  Julie spoke up: “I’ve got one you should know about—”

  Natalie flinched. “Jules, please—”

  “Let the lady speak,” MacPherson said. “That’s the only way I ever hear anything about this case—from your friends. You were saying, Miss Conway?”

  Julie told him about the man in the bar who had turned up watching the house today. “Think about it,” she said. “Maybe he’s been sending the flowers—I mean, it’s the sort of weird thing that kind of guy might do.”

  “The flowers are beginning to bother me a bit,” MacPherson said. “You’ve checked everybody you know—this Danmeier character with his binoculars, your old analyst chum, your ex-husband. And you can’t think of anyone else? Any rejected suitors?”

  “I haven’t dated anyone in a long time.”

  He smiled at his beer, as if the fact satisfied him. “You know,” he mused, “I wonder about that watcher today. What time did you see him?”

  “Between noon and one, I suppose.”

  He nodded. “Natalie and I were decorating the Christmas tree. He may have been watching off and on for a while … he may have known we were in there together. Think about the past, a man you knew well—”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but there certainly isn’t anyone from the past. And anyway the man with the gun was sheer coincidence, no ghost from my past could have planned it—making me go to the window at just that moment—”

  “No, of course not. But we could be dealing with two unrelated but intersecting arcs of your life, wasting our time trying to make them connect when there’s just no connection. I’ve gotten into traps like that before and getting out can take forever. Well, hamburgers, ladies? Fries? Another round?”

  “Cheese on mine, please,” Julie said. “You know, I’ve seen most of these shows—the big losers.” She grinned, winked at MacPherson. Natalie tried not to smile, said a prayer for the cop.

  “Who made sure you saw all these flops?”

  “Big losers.” Julie giggled.

  “All we need is one more big loser. Who sends roses.” He turned back to Natalie. “What is it abo
ut you, anyway? All these nice men buzzing around the edges of your life. All they do is confuse the issue. It’s funny. None of them threw the gun. None of them sent the roses. None of them stood outside that door laughing. None of them burgled your apartment. … So, I ask you—” He took a long, slow drink of beer, wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Why do I keep coming back to them? I wish I knew.”

  “Well,” Julie said, “they do keep turning up, don’t they?”

  “They’re not involved in my gunman thing. That’s obvious.”

  MacPherson nodded. “But Goldstein is following you the night your dog runs away. Your ex-husband inserts himself into the case by talking to Garfein and then making nice-nice with me. Danmeier just happens to wander into the Bemelmans Bar, he just happens to be watching you out the window with his binocs. It sort of hangs together but I can’t see what it means.”

  The hamburgers arrived and they ate slowly, looking at the gathering crowd. Natalie tried to light on a face, a shape, a coat, anything she might recognize, anything that might remind her of the gunman. It was a losing battle.

  At one end of the long room, perhaps twenty feet from where they sat, there was a small stage with a microphone stuck in a stand, a piano, a couple of stools. After they had been talking and eating and scanning the crowd for an hour and a half, the lights dimmed slightly and two guys came out and began fiddling around with the piano and a saxophone. The lights dimmed some more and a tall girl with long blond hair and a lean, lanky figure, wearing a blue dress and a cameo choker, came out and began singing over a smattering of applause. Her voice was strong but soft, as if there were an endless supply of decibels she had no need of. She didn’t confuse the issue with lots of pointless patter, just sang with the piano and the sax behind her.

  She sang “Blue Moon” and “Back Home Again in Indiana” and “But Baby It’s Cold Outside” and “These Foolish Things” and “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”